


Hold On To Me When I Fall

by delighted



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Coda, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s10e14 I Ho'olulu Ho'ohulei 'ia E Ka Makani, Feelings Realization, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Shock, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:21:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23930719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delighted/pseuds/delighted
Summary: Post S10E14.Danny’s stomach drops when his phone powers up and he gets a frantic buzz of notifications. They’re all from Steve. A string of texts, and then a single voicemail.Or, Danny finally calls Steve.
Relationships: Steve McGarrett/Danny "Danno" Williams
Comments: 35
Kudos: 298





	Hold On To Me When I Fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AlgeriaTouchshriek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlgeriaTouchshriek/gifts).



> So much more than just beta read by Algeria.
> 
> This one is his.

Danny knows, in the split second before he hears the sirens. It happens nearly in the exact moment. In the same... _breath_. 

Her last.

He’s known the anguish of being the one to show up just that minute too late. Heard the shot fired as he’s about to break down the door. More times than he’d survive keeping count of. 

So he should behave better. He should “be a cop” in this moment. It should even be a comfort, switching gears. Put “Danny” aside and be the job. Danny who just lost... a friend? A lover? ... _A hook up_. It’s not clear, it’s not valid, it’s too tenuous, and it’s too tangled in his head and maybe that’s why....

His own pain, that had been easy to set aside, simple to push past, grit his teeth through—in order to help, to rescue, to comfort. But without her now to save, the protective wall between him and his pain just dissolves. It thuds back into his body with a heaviness, a sharp clang of reality. Like it weighs more, now she’s gone. 

He can’t be Detective Williams right now. 

Yes, he used it. To get through to emergency services, knew it would matter. Hoped it would. 

But they failed him. _The one time_.... But no. That’s not fair. _He_ failed him. 

He failed _her._

And right now he just can’t.

The sirens are getting close. But there’s no point, now. And he can’t be the one to tell them that. He can’t face the regret in their eyes. Their guilt. Their failure. _It’s not theirs_. He needs it for himself. He’s not going to divide his pain, he needs to take it all on himself and it doesn’t make any sense and probably he knows that on some level. But he can’t share this pain right now. And the only way he can think to do that is to _just walk away_.

So he does. 

He climbs steadily, painstakingly, back up the embankment, for the final time. With every step it feels like the sharp steel he pulled from her spine is slicing into him. Deep into his gut, into his soul. It fuels him. The more it hurts, the further he thinks he could go. And he has to. He has to get away, has to get past the ambulance, the fire truck. Before they stop him, before they still him, insist on checking him over, tending to his wounds. 

His don’t matter. He’ll live. He will be fine. 

He doesn’t move fast. He knows they see where he’s come from, knows they won’t miss the car. Can’t miss the dull sheen of the scratched, dented, crushed metal littering the jungle floor in a heap. So much red lighting the way. 

He knows they see him. One of them will recognize him. Not many EMTs on the island don’t, after ten years. Someone will find him, when they’ve finished, when they’ve done the meaningless things they have to do, now it’s a recovery and not a rescue. 

One of them will find him, and he’ll have to answer the questions he doesn’t want to be asked. If he’s lucky, it’ll be someone who will let him give his answers without having to suffer though the questions. Someone who will spare him that. 

He will face that part. He’ll do what has to be done. But _this_ part. He can’t be there for that. Can’t face them watching him through it. So he keeps going. And maybe it’s a crew that knows. Because they let him.

He makes it to the curve, the turn in the road, the one they’d just gone past when.... There’s a log, by the side of the road. Five feet in on the red dirt. Blood red dirt. Because of course, on this godforsaken island even the dirt bleeds. He sits on the log which is a mistake, because sitting hurts even worse than walking, and because he’s not standing back up without help. So he sits and he waits, his pain a fitting companion. The only one he could tolerate. For now.

It feels like forever and like it can’t be more than half an hour. He knows her. The one they send. And they’re smart because they send the new girl. He’s met her twice. And she’s smart and she’s kind and she’s damn good at her job, and right now her job is telling him he has to go to the hospital. And if they’d sent anyone but her he’d probably have said _no_. In a lot less friendly terms. 

But because it’s her, he says _not just yet_. And she understands. 

It’s not till hours later. The paperwork done. Everything... taken care of. Danny finally lets himself be taken to the hospital. He’s put on fluids, his vitals are hooked up. Tests run, monitoring, just to be safe. Which is so fucking ironic he wants to punch something. Gets antsy sitting there. Waiting. Waiting for what? Waiting for who? It’s not like anyone who matters knows what’s happened. It’s not like anyone important is going to magically show up. 

It’s out of habit more than anything that he finally pulls his phone out. _Check messages._ The familiar impulse impossible to resist, though he’s in no state to make contact. He’d just as soon hide away. Till _what_ , he doesn’t know.

His phone, unsurprisingly, is dead, but there’s a charger next to the bed, still plugged in. Obviously it’s happened before. 

His stomach drops when his phone powers up and he gets that frantic string of notifications. They’re all from Steve. A string of texts, starting out playful— _wink wink hope you’re having fun_ —but evolving into _dude just let me know you’re okay._ And then a single voicemail. Danny sits staring at it. His finger hovering over the “listen” button. He wonders when Steve left it (there’s no question in his mind it’s Steve). Somehow it matters if it was before, or _after_.... 

With a shaky breath he touches the screen, listens, and... it is after... but only just. Maybe even right as he was walking away... walking to get away. God. As if he _could_ get away from the guilt The blame. The awful, horrible, pointless stupidity of it.

“ _Hey buddy, listen. I’m, uh, I’m all for you having the day to yourself and all, but it’s been kinda crazy here today and, I dunno, I guess it’s making me worry, so could you please just drop me a text or something so I know you’re okay? Hope things went great with whoever was crazy enough to talk to you at the bar. Tell her if she needs therapy after, I can suggest someone.”_

Danny hangs up before he can delete the message, nearly dropping the phone as if he’s been burnt by it. The alert clears. But the sense of foreboding doesn’t.

He looks at the floor. Afraid to so much as look at his phone. As if it’s a threat, as if it might explode. Which honestly is how it feels. Because he has to tell Steve. And he doesn’t want to. And not because it will make it solidly, irrevocably real (as if it wasn’t already becoming more real than he can stand, as his very real hurts and pains pour through the fading haze of adrenaline). But because confessing it to Steve, confessing all of it—what he did, what _they_ did, what he _couldn’t_ do... and what he realized somewhere in the middle of it all—it’s all too much. His head buzzes with it, and for a solid minute he’s certain he’s going to throw up.

Still, he thinks, when the nausea abates enough for thought to resume. Probably it’s better if he tells Steve himself. Mostly because he thinks if Steve were to find out some other way, he’d be impossible to deal with. He’s not sure how long it’ll take for word to get around. Not sure how long it’d take for anyone to realize Steve _doesn’t_ know. He almost laughs when he realizes everyone who might tell Steve will probably think he already knows. 

He dials his number the long way. Steve’s his primary speed dial. But he can’t bring himself to press the shortcut. Like it would somehow taint it? Or because it calms him, reciting the sequence. Or because he’s stalling. Hoping it’ll occur to him. What to say. How to say it. In the time it takes him to dial the number. He’s never wished harder for a rotary phone. The pace fits the thickness of his thinking. One. Thing. At. A. Time. It’s how you get through stuff like this. But it’s so not Danny’s normal way of being. It does incredibly uncomfortable things to him, and he doesn’t want to linger in it. But for now... slowly picking out Steve’s phone number _helps_. 

He picks up on the first ring, and that makes Danny imagine he’s been sitting watching it. Because Steve’s never that fast to answer. Danny’s stomach heaves, he nearly drops the phone, and Steve starts immediately with a light but strangely serious scolding. “I was worried sick. I mean I get wanting to have your fun and all, but man, you know I worry—” and he stops dead. It’s clear he’s heard the _beep beep_ of the hospital machines. “Fuck. Danny.”

“Babe, just don’t.” Danny’s voice comes out raspy, weak. That’s only going to make Steve worry more. 

“ _I’ll be right there_.”

Danny can’t explain it, he can’t. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to. But he doesn’t think he can deal with Steve being here right now. He tries to sound stern. He knows he fails. “Steve. Don’t. Please. Not like this.”

“Jesus Christ, Danny, like _what?_ ” His intensity has ramped up. At a guess, he’s standing.

And any hope Danny’d had of keeping Steve away, keeping him from knowing, just... evaporates. “She died, Steve. She... I couldn’t....”

Danny hears Steve’s keys. He’s muttering something to someone... to several someones? Shit. Probably he’s with the team. God, Danny doesn’t want anyone else to know. Not... not yet. Not... “ _Steve._...” He hears the breath Steve sucks in, can see his posture. See it like he’s right there in front of him. 

“You listen to me. I will be right there. But you do not hang up this phone, you hear me? I’m putting it in my chest pocket while I drive but I swear to god Daniel if you hang up on me....”

And of course that’s when Danny starts to cry. Because that will help everything right now. 

“Hey, hey.... Danny... hey, buddy. Just keep listening to my voice. I’m gonna be there as soon as I can. You stay with me, okay? Just stay with me, buddy. Hold on till I’m there, Danny....”

And it crosses Danny’s mind that there’s just not an emergency here. He’s dealt with all of this without Steve. Why should there be a rush now, all of a sudden, to Danny’s side? It just doesn’t compute. Only the thing is, it really kind of does. 

His breaths come in awful sounding choking sobs. They echo, alongside the infernal mechanical beeping... the sounds that might have kept her alive, might have made a difference. 

“Danny, you gotta keep breathing. Deep breaths. Can you count backwards from one hundred? Or... tell me the batting order for the ‘86 Mets. You still remember that, right buddy? I forgot it, can you remind me? ...Or can you tell me the....”

The EMT who’d tracked him down had told Danny there hadn’t been a chance. Even if they’d gotten to her right away, even if they could have operated right after it happened. The damage was too severe. The loss of blood too great. He’d refused to believe it. Blamed himself for not trying harder to get to that first car, he should have ignored her pleas.... But the EMT had insisted. Gently, but firmly, tried to make him see that on some level, he’d known. He had enough triage knowledge. Part of him had known that all he’d be able to do was to give her comfort. Make her think there was a chance. He’d been pretty sure she hadn’t fallen for it....

“I’m almost there buddy. It’s gonna be okay, it’s all gonna be okay... I’m almost there, Danny. I’ll be there soon. I’m sorry I wasn’t there. But I’m gonna be with you real soon—”

He’s choking more than he’s crying, and it keeps him from processing the platitudes Steve’s continuing as he drives (no doubt entirely too fast) to the hospital. He’s glad though, because he doesn’t want to hear them. Doesn’t want to be soothed. Doesn’t deserve to be comforted. 

Meanwhile, Danny’s crying sounds, or maybe the sounds of the machines reading his distress, have garnered the attention of one of the pushier and less gentle nurses. 

By the time Steve says he’s at the parking garage, Danny’s dried his eyes, finished his first round of fluids, been reassessed by the nurse, started on round two, and been declared not fit to leave any time soon. 

Probably mostly because he’s fought her so hard on everything. 

Steve’ll advocate for him, he knows. Get him out of here. It’s one reason he didn’t try harder to keep him from coming. Not like he’d have been able to, really. Even Danny has no hope of holding Steve back when he gets like that. 

He’s not sure he wanted to. 

Steve hangs up the phone when he enters the hospital, because the sign says so and because he gets yelled at for ignoring it. Danny’s anxiety, losing that voice in his ear, even though he wasn’t really listening, his anxiety spikes, and he gets woozy, and he has to lean back on the pillows and try to calm himself. His head hurts. His ankle hurts. His side hurts. And a wave of exhaustion so vast hits him, he feels certain he’ll pass out. _Better just close my eyes for a second_ , he thinks. And he does, essentially, pass out. 

  
His eyes open, some indeterminable time later, to be met with soft, slightly reddened hazel ones, their brows furrowed. Worry hangs in the air like Danny can smell it.

Steve’s hand is on his forearm, gently rubbing circles. He stops when he sees Danny watching. Pulls his hand away. 

Danny wishes he hadn’t. 

“I... I couldn’t... there wasn’t service,” he starts. And why is his first thought to explain himself? Defend? Yeah, probably defend. 

Steve’s lips quirk just a little towards a smirk. Self-deprecating. Maybe tinged a little with some self-loathing of his own. It’s a look Danny knows well on his own face. 

“I wasn’t sure how to take it, you know? I mean, you harass me constantly any time I’m out with someone, so I thought... but I wasn’t sure. And I let myself get carried away with Eddie’s manic behavior. Maybe I thought if I could at least figure _that_ out....”

“ _Steve_.” His voice is still so raw. He hates it. “ _Just shut up_.”

Steve huffs a partial laugh. Lets his head rest in his hands, his elbows on his knees, his whole body leaning toward Danny. His whole focus on him. “Yeah. Okay.” With his head still down, eyes averted, Steve lets his hand fall back forward. Back onto the bed. Not on Danny’s arm where it’d been, but carefully, further down, near Danny’s hand. 

Not quite touching. 

Danny lets his eyes close. Takes a slow, steadying breath. Fights the urge to hold back. Fights his ingrained resistance, his self-punishing need to make himself suffer simply by _not_ taking what’s being offered. He succeeds for a while, but then his pinky reaches out, almost of its own volition. And it brushes up against the side of Steve’s hand, which is warm, and rough, and familiar. 

_Warmth_. After so much cold. Such dread. So much _cold_. 

He moves his hand closer. Touching, but not actually holding. It’s as much as he can do without dissolving completely, and he hopes, hopes Steve will understand.

“One more hour, they said,” Steve whispers. His hand twitching but not moving. Like he wants to hold it but knows better. “And then I can take you home.”

“Thanks, babe.”

“Yeah. Of course, Danny. Of course.”

And Danny, lulled by the gentle _beep beep_ of his stubborn, persistent life, and the comforting warmth of Steve’s hand next to his, falls, against his will, back asleep.

The first thing he becomes aware of when he wakes is that the beeping has stopped. The second is the absence of Steve’s hand on the bed. The third—and how is it not the first? Is Steve’s whisper in his ear.

“Come on, Danny. Let’s go home.”

God, those three words, spoken by that voice. His heart processes it before he can stop himself and why does it always take the absolute horrible things in life before we see what truly matters, what we really want?

He stirs, then groans, because his injuries aren’t that bad (and how is that in any way fair), but even after the little bit of time not moving, his whole body has seized up, and _fuck_. Well, there’s some of the punishment he deserves. 

Steve notices.

“I have the drugs. You can have them once we’re home, because they’ll make you loopy and you need to be able to function just a little while longer, okay buddy?”

Steve’s voice is so... _gentle_. How’s Danny never noticed before, he can be like this? _Not fair_ , part of his mind counters. _He hasn’t been. Not like this_. And the thought floods him with that prickly cold-hot sensation and if he wasn’t already lying down he might have stumbled. 

It’s an apt word though, _stumble_. It feels a lot like what he’s done. Just generally with life, lately. Since... well, since another car flipped, another life was nearly—god, thankfully not, but nearly—lost. And that flash of thought, that _thank god it hadn’t been Grace that had died_ , and he knows, shit he knows it’s the human thing to think, but he’s hit by that heated wash of shame that he should hate himself for thinking it, hate that he’s capable of the thought. But he can’t. He just can’t. Not for that. And maybe it grounds him a little. Maybe it makes him so uncomfortable he has to move—as if he’d be able to get away from his thoughts by physically moving, which is the dumbest thought, but one he falls for again and again.

“Easy buddy, go slow, okay?” 

And there’s that gentleness again. That kindness. So solicitous. So concerned. And his skin prickles even more because how can Steve give that, so willingly give him that, when the whole reason they’re here is because Danny’d gone off to get drunk and mindlessly fuck some stranger. 

Of course that’s not what’d happened. That’s so far from what had happened. But it had been his intent—though if he’s honest, he’d fully anticipated failing utterly at it, or more to the point, not even trying. Still. Steve’s treating him with far more kindness than Danny thinks he’d be treating Steve. 

_Knows_ he is.

“Yeah, fine, let’s just get out of here please.”

Steve stands back, holds out his hand, and peevishly, Danny wants to refuse. But it’s obvious even to him that he’s already swaying dangerously before he’s even got his feet on the ground, so he takes it. And it’s nearly instantaneous, the feeling he gets, the sense of being bolstered, held upright, strengthened, by Steve’s touch, his support. And yes, in this case it’s literally physical, but some part of Danny’s brain acknowledges that this is what they do for each other. This is what they’ve always done. Hold each other up when they can’t on their own. And he knows what that means. Knows what he’s wanted it to mean. And he sees, almost as though for the first time, just exactly what it truly means.

Unfortunately it hits him a little too hard and he nearly falls over. But Steve’s got him, of course, and his arm wraps snugly around him. Leads him towards the wheelchair that’s waiting. The obligatory one, Danny knows, it’s required. But he also knows that if he sits in it, he won’t make it out of here with any shred of dignity left, and he must make some pained sound of protest, because Steve’s voice is in his ear, calm, strong, reassuring. “I know, buddy, I know, don’t worry, I got you,” and they walk right past it, right past the exasperated shouts of the gruff nurse, past her, past all of it, and out the door.

  
Steve watches him too much on the drive home. 

His ability (and willingness) to drive without watching the road is always remarkable, but tonight it’s nearly painful. 

Danny tries to ignore him. Refuses to meet his searching gaze, his worried look. Keeps himself from yelling at him. 

Eventually, he looks over. Holds Steve’s eyes with his, till Steve blinks, and looks away. But his hand falls on Danny’s leg, gives it a reassuring squeeze, and before he can take it away, Danny’s trapped it with his own hand. Not holding it, just resting atop. Keeping it still. 

With the contact firmly in place Steve seems better able to watch the road. To focus on where he’s going. And Danny has to keep himself from quipping that if he’d known that all it took to get Steve to watch the road was to hold his hand, he’d have done it ages ago.

“What will you eat?” 

It’s not a question, though it’s phrased as one. Danny knows Steve will make him eat _something_. Even though the likelihood of him throwing it up is monumentally high.

Danny shakes his head. “Babe, please....”

“Eggs and toast?” Steve offers. Compromise. Protein, but simple. And carbs, which is probably all he really wants. Dry toast and water he might almost manage.

“Fine,” he submits, and knows, without looking, Steve’s smiled.

Steve opens his door when they’ve parked out front. It looks like he’s only just held back from offering to help Danny down from the cab, which, after all, is a big jump down, even for Steve. Danny manages though. Like it’s some test he has to pass. Steve doesn’t hold himself back from placing his hand at the small of Danny’s back as they walk to the door. As though Danny might try and bolt. Maybe he’s still traumatized by Eddie’s failed escape. Doesn’t want anyone running out on him. 

Which of course is so perfectly Steve.

“Think you can shower...?” Steve asks once they’re inside, shoes off, and Danny’s just stopped in the entry like he doesn’t know where he is, doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do now. 

Danny meets his eyes again. Probably holds them for too long. It feels like entire conversations pass between them in one simple gaze. 

Steve grabs his arm and squeezes gently, letting go far sooner than Danny wants. “I’ll come check on you in a bit.” And he heads for the kitchen.

Danny climbs the stairs gingerly, remembering his recent uphill struggles. Sense memory is a shitty thing. By the time he makes it to the upstairs guest bath, he’s shaking. He gets in the shower with his clothes still on, partly because standing without support is hard and getting undressed feels dangerous without a wall to lean against, and partly because he’d rather wash any remaining dried up jungle mud down the drain than wind up with it on the floor. He leaves his clothes hanging on the inner shower handrail, thinking he’ll deal with them later. Probably he’ll just throw them away. 

It takes him three rounds with a washcloth and so much soap, and twice with the shampoo before he feels half way clean. The rest he knows has nothing to do with dirt or blood. He’s been here before. It takes time, not soap and water.

He’s mostly dry and sitting on the bed in Steve’s old room, contemplating the idea of putting on clothes, when Steve comes in with two glasses.

“Water? Or brandy?” He asks, holding them out. 

Danny reaches gratefully for the water, surprised to find he’s incredibly thirsty, and drinks it all in one go. 

“I’ll go get more,” Steve offers.

When Danny doesn’t automatically give the empty glass over, Steve holds out his hand for it, but Danny can’t seem to let it go, staring at it as if it might answer some muddled question in his head. 

He doesn’t know _what_ he needs. But he’s pretty sure it’s not more water. So he shakes his head, sets the glass down, regrets the head shake, tries to hide the wince.

Steve waits. Patiently. Sets the brandy down, sits not on the bed, but in the chair across from it, presumably so he can observe Danny. Maybe he’ll figure out what Danny needs. If Danny can’t. It’s a slightly odd thought but an almost comforting one—Steve watches Danny a lot, after all. Maybe he does know what Danny needs. Better than Danny does. Probably it wouldn’t be a first.

Danny eventually looks up. Meets those searching, knowing eyes once more. He’s certain Steve sees too much. Positive he sees everything. But Steve’s own eyes, Danny just can’t read right now. And it unsettles him. He’s used to being so sure of their meaning. It’s as though his translation matrix is offline. He looks away, somehow can’t face saying anything while their eyes are locked in something he isn’t sure he understands.

“Could you...” Danny starts. Hesitates. Sighs. Says nothing, thinks nothing. Just... nothing.

Some time must pass with him saying nothing, and not moving, because Steve clears his throat, waits for Danny to meet his eyes again. “What do you need, buddy? What can I do?”

It pulls him back in focus enough to notice he’s still not dressed. He at least should put clothes on. That’d be a start. But he doesn’t want to decide. Doesn’t trust himself, maybe? Or maybe he just wants Steve to take his decisions over for him. 

“I don’t know what to wear....” It’s an odd thing to be stuck on, maybe, but Steve doesn’t seem to think so. He’s been through enough trauma, helped Danny through enough trauma. He doesn’t comment. Simply nods, stands, and goes to the dresser—and of course he knows what’s where, because Steve’s been doing his laundry, and Steve, unlike Danny, folds laundry and puts it away. Danny tends to leave it on the chair instead. 

He hands Danny a soft, faded pair of sweats and his Seton Hall tee with the mostly worn off logo. It’s that cornflower blue Danny’s always suspected Steve loves on him. And it’s the perfect choice. Comfort. Stabilizing.

“Come down when you’re ready,” Steve says, touching Danny again, this time on the top of his head. It’s as though he’s become incapable of not touching him for more than a few moments. Danny’s in danger of becoming reliant on it. “Your food is ready whenever.”

“Yeah, no, I’m ready now,” Danny says it in a rush, like he’s afraid to hesitate, afraid to be left alone. When he moves to stand, he sways a little, and Steve’s right there. He stabilizes him, but then steps a pace away. Danny follows. They make it downstairs like that, step following step.

“Eat at the table?” Steve suggests. And maybe it’s too formal. They don’t, often. Breakfast is usually standing around in the kitchen, dinner usually in front of the TV. Neither seems right, now.

“Yeah, sure. Good.”

He’s already set it. Cleared whatever paperwork had been strewn across it. Turned the light on, but dim. Danny sits, not offering to help, and not even feeling bad about it.

Steve brings out two plates of eggs, two slices of buttered toast each. Too much butter on his, just the perfect amount on Danny’s. The only other person in Danny’s life who ever bothered to figure that out was his mom. Steve... it’s like he just noticed, and adapted. Watched Danny butter toast enough he absorbed the ability to do it the same. 

There’s already strawberry jam and that thick, goopy, grainy honey on the table. Like it’s his grandma’s kitchen table. The only thing missing is the sticky bottle of ketchup. That and the rose patterned porcelain salt and pepper shakers.

He shakes his head, trying to clear the useless memories, but on second thought they’re probably protecting him from newer memories he’s not ready to process.

The eggs are still warm. However Steve’s done that, tray in the oven maybe. _Gone all out for Danny tonight_ , his mind helpfully supplies. _So much more than necessary._

So like Steve.

They eat in peace. Or, well, the absence of talking. Though voices and sounds run on constant repeat in Danny’s head. Sounds he knows he’ll never forget—and one voice he’s already starting to. 

It’s as though he didn’t know her long enough for her to imprint fully on his senses and his body isn’t able to hold on to the memory of her, just like he hadn’t been able to keep her from dying. It’s awful. It’s like losing her again, only instead of that sharp anguish of the immediacy of life or death, this loss is pale, feeble. Twistedly underhanded. It feels even more like its his fault. Some weakness or flaw on his part. Like a failing of his mind is keeping him from saving the memory of her, like his lack of physical resources and training kept him from saving her life.

He manages to eat and not throw up. Which would surprise him if he had any capacity for shock left. Which he doesn’t. His system is fried. Overwrought, over-taxed. Over spun, like that damn awful car, flipped out of control and _done_.

After they eat he makes Steve take Eddie out and forces himself to wash the dishes. Steve tries to suggest the opposite, but Danny points out he doesn’t have the strength to keep Eddie from bolting, even though he’s clearly still sluggish from the tranquilizers.

“I can wash dishes, Steven. Go. Eddie needs the routine, it’ll help him. Just keep him out front and on his leash please.”

Steve grins. It’s like he’s forgotten it’s Danny who’s the dog person in this house. If he’s picked up on the implication that Danny will need his routine as well, he declines to comment.

“Yeah okay, but leave the pan, I’ll do it in the morning.”

As soon as Steve’s gone out the door with the dog Danny reaches in the freezer and grabs two peppermint patties. Because he wants booze but he won’t, and not because of the meds, because he won’t take those either—because both will mess with his head right now and he’s not ready to not hurt from this. Not ready to feel less. But he needs to rid his mouth of that sharp metallic tang that he knows won’t go away soon enough but he hopes the mint will at least mask it for a while.

He does leave the pan for Steve, mostly because it’s heavy and his wrist is sore. 

By the time Steve’s back with a slightly perkier and less glum looking Eddie, Danny’s settled himself on the sofa, trying to look as though he’s lounging, and not so much like he simply couldn’t stand any longer.

Steve takes Eddie to the laundry room to feed him and probably give him more meds so he’ll sleep safely, then comes to stand in the living room, watching Danny with concerned, but hopeful eyes.

For a minute Danny thinks Steve will suggest going up to bed, but he’s smarter than that. He knows Danny too well. He grabs the blanket off the back of the chair (the one Danny always uses when he sleeps down here) and hands it to Danny.

“D’you want the TV on?”

“Nah. I’d rather have the windows open. Hear the waves.”

Steve’s face twitches towards a grin, but he holds himself back. Just. “Sure thing, buddy. Whatever you want.” 

He disappears into the study, to open the windows out to the lanai, and when he walks back into the living room, he hesitates. Danny can tell he’s deciding between taking the chair and joining him on the sofa, so he sits up, pats the spot where his head’s just been. 

“Come on, I need a pillow.”

Steve chuckles lightly. He kicks his legs up on the coffee table and lifts his arms up to make room for Danny. Once he’s settled, feet resting on the arm of the sofa, head perfectly in Steve’s lap, he looks up at Steve, who’s looking down at him, his concern softening as Danny stills. 

For all Steve’s the action hero type, making Danny nervous with his reckless driving and leaping off buildings and throwing himself in the path of danger, he seems oddly more comfortable when Danny isn’t moving. Like his own latent energy is perpetually on alert unless Danny’s more subtle but more flammable energy is damped down. It’s as though Steve can only calm once Danny already has. Like he can only get his bearings, find his way, once his compass has stopped spinning. 

Gently, slowly, Steve lets his hands down, tentatively letting one brush the hair back from Danny’s face. It’s soothing. So tender, so unexpected. Danny lets out the softest sound, sighs into the touch. Steve does it again. Setting up a pattern of touches, explorations. Mapping new territory.

They’re quiet for a while. Danny can hear the waves, in that magical unexplainable way they get louder at night. It helps. Like the TV does, only he can’t handle that tonight. Tonight, this is just right. Enough white noise so he can think... enough distraction for the part of his brain that needs it, so he can start to process what’s happened. 

There’s only one place his mind keeps going. Like it’s stuck on a loop.

“I called her ‘the woman of my dreams,’ Steve.”

Steve hesitates. His hand hovers over Danny’s head for a long moment before he resumes stroking, just trailing his fingers lightly. It almost tickles, but Danny is not about to complain. 

“Did you mean it?” 

It’s clear in his tone. He needs the answer. But he’s not sure he wants it. Danny settles his head more solidly in Steve’s lap. Takes a big breath. Releases it, and a good bit of tension.

“I was... I was trying to bargain with her. I would have... you know? Anything, to get her to stay alive. I just couldn’t... god, in that moment. It’s the only thing that matters. The whole world reduces down, and the only thing that matters is the life that’s in front of you.... And... and when you can’t do anything about it—it’s like... you want to imagine you’re powerful, somehow... somehow you could make a miracle happen. But you’re just not. You just have no power at all, and... all you can do is watch this person, this very real, very beautiful person just stupidly bleed out... and there’s just not anything you can do.”

Steve’s gone very, very still. 

Danny slowly plays back what he’s just said... and wants to punch himself.

“Shit. Babe. I’m... I didn’t... shit.” He tries to sit, tries to push himself up, but Steve’s hand, which has grown heavy on his head, just holds him. He hears the swallow, feels his head start to move as Steve begins breathing again. He reaches his hand up. The same hand that couldn’t stop the bleeding. To hold another hand that twice failed at the same task. He brings it down from his head. Holds it against his heart. “Babe, I’m so sorry.” He nestles in further against Steve’s belly, as if somehow by getting close enough he might be able to help. Might finally be able to comfort Steve for his own losses. His own far too painful losses. Ones Danny knows he blames himself for. Still. Always.

Steve’s breaths are sharp and shallow, but at least he’s breathing. His hold on Danny’s hand is weak, like he hasn’t really processed yet, the change from stroking Danny’s head, to having his hand held at Danny’s heart. So Danny tightens his grip. Knowing that can help to anchor Steve. Knowing it’s helping _him_. 

Eventually Steve’s breathing evens out. Matching Danny’s, whether intentionally or just because they’re touching. His hold on Danny’s hand tightens. 

“Hey. Don’t worry about it,” he finally says. “It’s all in the past. This is about you now.”

“Bullshit,” Danny hisses, but there’s no venom there, it’s far closer to exhaustion. Not physical. But mental? Emotional. Steve always thinks everyone else’s losses are so much more important than his own. So much more deserving.

“ _Excuse me?”_

“That’s bull and you know it, Steve.” Danny sighs. “There’s no way your mom's death is in the past for you. And neither is Joe’s, by the way. And they shouldn’t be. And I’m sorry I brought all that back up for you by talking about this, but... that’s why you gotta deal with it, gotta face it, and yes, _talk_ about it, so you can move forward from it. That is how this _works_. That is how you get through it.”

Steve hesitates, maybe he wants to argue back. Maybe he’s just thinking it through. He sucks in a breath and pushes forward. “Yeah, but... I want to be here for _you_ with this. God knows you’ve been here for me.”

Danny’s breath puffs out against his will and it feels bitter before he’s even said a word. “I’ve tried to be. But it’s not like you’ve done much with it.”

The ensuing silence almost hurts. But he doesn’t cringe, won’t let himself regret the words, their harsh tone. It has stung, after all. Being here. Trying to be... needed. Wanting to be... _wanted_.

“Danny....”

He braces himself. Nearly literally, feet pressing against the arm of the sofa. “ _Yeah_.”

“Having you here... you know that’s meant the world to me, right?”

Still pressing his feet into the sofa. It helps. The pressure, actual physical pressure. Relieves some from his mind. “Has it?”

“ _Of course it has_.”

Danny releases his feet. Lets them drop to the cushion. Turns more inward, toward Steve. “I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t sure if maybe I wasn’t doing it more for myself, because _I_ couldn’t stand the thought of you being alone.”

Danny feels Steve’s belly jostle as he chokes out an involuntary breath of air. “Yeah. _I know the feeling._ ”

“Huh?”

Steve looks down at him. Fingers lingering where he’s lifted his other hand up to pet the longer strands of sun bleached hair. As though he simply couldn’t _not._

“I couldn’t stand the thought of you being alone. At the hospital. Before that. Dealing with this, on your own—I physically _couldn’t stand_ it. Wanted to crawl out of my skin every second I wasn’t with you.”

Danny’s brow has furrowed. It’s hard to swallow. His need to comfort Steve rises again. It’s a turn that feels awkward but also very right. 

“Hey. You’re here now. _I’m_ here now....”

“That’s my point. You _are_ here. Doris and Joe are gone. I couldn’t help them. I _can_ help you. I want to help you. But... I’m not sure I know how.”

Danny squeezes the hand he’s still holding. Presses it closer to his heart. “This _is_ helping. You’re helping. _You_ help. Just... just you being you. Helps. It always does. It always has.”

Steve smiles. “Well that was my point before too.”

And that... Steve admitting Danny’s presence has helped... it’s like it frees up a bigger part of Danny’s mind, to start to process, past that one moment he’d been stuck on. That one thing he’d found to say to her. And maybe knowing Steve still needs to process his losses too, that pushes him, to talk where maybe he’s not really ready to himself, but the two of them together need it. He knows it’s a slightly dangerous thing, to just start talking about the accident, before the dust has even settled. He’ll say things that don’t make sense, he’ll say too much. Or maybe not enough. But then he’s already done the worst, put his foot on the biggest landmine, so in a sense, he may as well go all out now. 

“This is all such shit,” he offers. Including Steve’s losses in his own, because it’s true, because somehow, it makes it easier, on them both. _Harder_... but also easier. “Life is shit. She was young. Beautiful. Sharp as hell. She fucking liked the Mets, babe.” 

Steve closes his eyes on the last line, maybe remembering his own recent evocation of Danny’s favorite baseball team. His hand stills on Danny’s head, pressing gently, firmly, acknowledging the connection. Knowing. Realizing what that would have meant to Danny.

“Aw, buddy. Yeah, it sucks. It always sucks.” 

He draws a shaky breath. Danny can hear his mental process, searching for something... something deeply meaningful to share in return. It takes him a while, but his selection nearly takes Danny’s breath away. 

“Joe’d finally found love, ya know? He’d finally found a woman to settle down with. I never thought he’d do that. Pretty sure he didn’t either.”

It’s too easy for Danny to counter that one. Probably because he’s already thought it.

“Like Aunt Deb....” 

Steve, evidently, has as well. “Yep,” he says, as though Danny’s only continued the thought in his own mind. “Like Aunt Deb.” 

They’re quiet for a moment, out of respect, yes, but maybe also out of fear that they might themselves be similarly too late to love. 

“Was she, do you think, Danny? The woman of your dreams, I mean? Do you think she was the one?”

Danny’s been through the thought fourteen times in the past ten minutes, and he’s still not got past having said the words. He honestly doesn’t know _what_ he thinks. 

“Well, I used to think Rachel was the one, so I’m not sure we want to take my opinion too seriously on this.”

“Still. If she liked the Mets....”

And it’s sweet, if Steve is gonna grant him that. Danny’s not sure he would, if the tables were flipped. So he sort of laughs, but the breath that comes out is too close to a sob to really be a laugh. But it’s almost a laugh, and that feels right. It feels like a release, feels physically like he’s letting something go. And he can admit it. At least admit that.

“God, she _did_. She was amazing, Steve.”

“Well, obviously. If she liked you.”

His tone is so soft, so sincere, so full of feeling, so full of _meaning_. And fuck, but that does it. It’s not even a release so much as a failing of whatever has been holding him back, holding him together. It’s not even that he starts to cry, it’s those dry, past-tears convulsions, the ones that hurt. The ones that take your whole body to produce. The ones you never want anyone to see.

“Danny... Danny, I’m sorry. I... I’m so sorry.” 

He struggles to sit up, can’t do this lying down, and part of him wants to flee, to run outside or up the stairs, but Steve’s opened his arms like he’s expecting Danny to fall into them, like he’s expecting Danny to fall apart right here, right in his arms. And it’s not that Danny thought Steve would walk away, would want to not see him like this. But somehow that Steve knows. Knows exactly what Danny’s feeling. And it’s suddenly not just about Danny’s loss. It’s Steve’s. It’s the comfort Danny never got to give. And that makes the tears really start to flow. He turns on the sofa and just collapses into Steve’s arms. And Steve holds him. 

It’s not long before Steve’s words start to flow in an echo of Danny’s tears... and they’re not calming and certain and anchoring like they’d been while he was driving to the hospital. They’re softer, and unsure, uneasy. He’s not in his comfort zone, but he’s trying.

“ _Hey, buddy... hey...._ I’m so sorry... sorry about Rachel, sorry about Joanna. And... I am really sorry I wasn’t there, sorry I couldn’t stop it from happening, sorry I couldn’t fix it. I’m sorry for everything.... I’m just... so sorry.”

Danny’s really crying now, Steve’s attempts at comforting him are hitting him deep in his chest, bringing up hidden layers of hurt. And it’s those elegant wracking sobs you choke on if you try and talk, but he has to try, because it’s too important.

“Are you sorry for the state of the world, too? Global warming?” 

And at first Steve’s hold on him tightens, maybe he takes a beat to process Danny’s tone. He gets there, though, and releases him enough to laugh, just a huff of a breath, but it tickles Danny’s neck and again, it just feels _nice_. It’s a gentle, intimate thing, and it’s a day that hasn’t had many gentle things. Except from Steve. And isn’t that a revelation and a half. And it clears his head so sharply, so instantaneously, it’s like he’s suddenly emerged from a tight confined space he hadn’t even known he’d been in. And everything is clear, so clear it hurts.

Steve sighs. “I’m not taking more than my fair share of blame for that, no.”

Danny pulls back. “Then don’t take it for this. I was the one driving— _nuh_ , don’t worry, I’m not gonna be too hard on myself for that. I went there with Grace, if I take that blame where I wouldn’t let her... no. I mean, I do of course. If I’d been driving the Camaro... but there are twenty seven ‘if onlys’ and I could paralyze myself doing that. I’ve said the words ‘it was an accident’ hundreds of times in my life. And it helps and it doesn’t and sometimes it’s easier. And sometimes it really sucks. And I know this isn’t something you get over fast.” He pauses, grabs for Steve’s hand again. Because suddenly it matters so much. “But I knew her for a _few hours_ , babe. And yeah, okay, maybe if I’d gotten to know her we’d have fallen in love. Maybe we’d just have been friends. I don’t know. I’m not gonna play that guessing game. There’s just no point.” He takes a deep breath. And has to swallow twice. Needs to finish before he can’t. “But I do know that I do not have the best track record with women. You might have noticed that.”

Steve squeezes Danny’s hand. “Yeah, me neither.”

It’s a simple admission, a casual agreement. But it’s not. Because just like that, with that one shared confession, everything changes. 

Still, Danny’s not at all sure how to put words to the feelings that’ve been seeping up through his chest, for so many hours now. They threaten to overwhelm him, but he thinks maybe if he presses Steve’s hand to his heart, maybe some of those realizations might transfer to him, by osmosis. Or maybe the contact will just help.

It doesn’t, at first, but it does make him aware that his pulse is racing.

“Have we...” He starts, then swallows, needs to try to say _something_ because he thinks he might explode from the pressure.

Steve tilts his head, aware Danny’s trying to get him to follow. “Have we what?” He asks softly. 

Maybe Steve needs to hear the words, maybe he hasn’t seen it yet. Or maybe he just wants them? Wants to hear Danny admit it? 

Because the thing is, and maybe he shouldn’t be, but Danny’s painfully unsure if he’s wildly misinterpreting things, gone so far over the line himself, he just assumes Steve has as well. He presses Steve’s hand more tightly to his heart. Hopes it will help him to see. 

And he tries, with controlled breathing, to calm his heart rate, to work up the courage to just say it. 

But does he really dare? It’s not at all appropriate given the circumstances, his timing couldn’t be worse. And yet... it’s times like these you see what—no, you see less of what _doesn’t_ matter. It’s easier to see what does. Or it’s easier (hopefully) to _admit_ what does. 

He bites his lips together. Swallows, straightens his posture. Lets their hands drop, Steve’s falls into his lap, Danny’s hesitates before he presses it into the cushions at his side. 

He takes a good breath. Not a deep one, but a controlled one. Reflexively licks his lips, which honestly could really use some chapstick. Steve’s gaze, which has held him through all this, flicks, only for an instant, downward, towards (so Danny imagines) his lips. Or maybe he’s just being fanciful. Either way, he can’t go back now. Has to say something and hope, just hope Steve feels the same.

“Are we, uh. Hmph.” He laughs awkwardly. Gestures between them, indicating—in theory—that he means _us_. “Have we been... um. Going about this... wrong?” 

It’s vague enough to allow interpretation. Honestly he knows they’re not well chosen words. They’re far too easily misinterpreted, and that’s dangerous enough, but all the more so when you’ve been playing on the precipice of misunderstanding for ten years. His brain, however, can’t manage to find the words to be more specific. Besides. Maybe it’s his way of hedging his bets. Because if Steve goes the other direction, the safer route, Danny can simply pretend that was where he was already headed.

Steve takes a breath, prepares to respond. Wets his lips as though they’ve been dried by too much air breathed in. He’s stalling. Deciding, perhaps? Danny manages to focus on Steve’s eyes, keep his breathing level. But then his gaze goes hazy and blurred, taking in Steve’s face as a whole, like he’s suddenly afraid to find what he doesn’t want to see in Steve’s eyes, is unwilling to look too closely. But he notices when Steve moistens his lips again, on the exhalation just before he speaks. Danny hopes the shiver he feels run through his body isn’t visible, but he’s not confident about that.

“Yeah, Danny,” Steve finally says, seeking, and carefully holding Danny’s eyes. “ _I think we have_.”

Well, fuck. 

Danny didn’t expect Steve’s answer to be so glaringly clear. Didn’t expect him to be so overwhelmingly certain. And it’s not that his words are more obvious than Danny’s own. _But his tone is._ Steve’s voice has never felt so heavy in Danny’s ears. So layered. The room is thick with it. It blocks Danny’s senses, floods him. And Steve’s a pretty direct guy. Too much so, too much of the time. But this is something more. This is something... a lot like _finally_. 

Further, he’s played Danny’s game, picked up that gauntlet Danny’d only barely thrown. He holds it now, as he continues to hold Danny’s eyes. Daring to convey a decade of longing in a matter of moments. It’s as though he presses the challenge back into Danny’s hands, bravely making it clear to Danny that he is ready. But also making it clear that he is capable of holding back, he’s willing to hold back. Until Danny is ready. His desire to be sensitive to Danny’s situation is gleaming from the depths of his eyes. And of course Danny ought to have expected that—ought to have expected Steve to need to be the chivalrous one, the one who waits. The one who is strong.

So Danny doesn’t have to be.

The force of it would knock Danny over if he wasn’t sitting. As it is, he leans a little further back, sinking more into the sofa, creating—probably helpfully—a greater distance between them. It breaks the tension, although it doesn’t feel like it’s broken so much as fractured. Electricity arcing now between the fragments. 

Steve’s own energy, his intensity, is corralled. It’s channeled, harnessed. And he’s offering that potential to Danny. With his eyes, always with his eyes, more than his words. It feels to Danny as though Steve’s put the reins in Danny’s hands. Told him the lead is his. In his time.

Thing is... Danny doesn’t have the slightest idea what to do with it. Timing is a bitch. This is all wrong. And yet. It is finally, entirely, too right. Taking what feels like the most important breath of his life and ending up light headed, he runs through more than five possible ways of following that up. 

None of them work at all.

“So,” he tries. Hoping something will come out that’s at least a valid response. Gears whir, completely fail to click into place. Finally: “ _What should we do?_ ” 

He’s asking for help picking clothes again. He wants Steve to make the decision. _Needs_ him to. The process of realizing his feelings has taken everything out of him. Deciding what _to do about it_ feels impossible. It feels, too, like Steve’s got the advantage. Like Steve’s always had the advantage. Always been that one step ahead. 

Maybe he has.

Danny stops himself short of saying _Tell me what I should do,_ but it feels like the thought has been released anyway.

Steve softens. He’s read enough in Danny’s hesitation. His desperation? Understood, once again, how lost Danny is. How much in need. Danny thinks Steve’s known it a lot longer than he has. Not just this, the now-lost. But the lost Danny’s been... for so much of the past ten years.

Except for when he’s with Steve.

In a way, it’s their trust. Their absolute implicit trust in each other. That daily reaffirmed: _My life in your hands._ It’s shifted, just the slightest bit. _My heart, now, too...._ But it is the same trust. Danny’s put his life in Steve’s hands before, so if Steve recognizes the offering now, it should be no surprise.

What maybe _is_ a surprise, is what Steve elects to _do_ with that trust.

He reaches his hand back out, toward Danny’s head. The gesture at once new yet already familiar. This time he lets his fingers trail down Danny’s cheek. His touch is gentle. Warm. Tender. He swallows thickly, takes a stuttering breath—as though he hasn’t wanted to breathe, but knows he must. The pad of his thumb brushes barely across Danny’s lower lip. There’s a cut there, but Danny doesn’t feel it. He only feels his skin buzz. Steve must feel it too because he lets his hand linger on Danny’s face, and it’s only a fraction of a moment before Danny leans into the touch. Like he’s leaned into all of Steve’s touches today. 

Steve, emboldened, presses his thumb against Danny’s upper lip, parting them as he brushes down, and _now_ Danny feels the cut. He’s grateful for the pain, even though it’s nowhere near enough. Not nearly enough. To be thinking what he’s thinking, after what he’s done today... he should feel nauseous. Should be sick. Should be incapable of it.

Something of those thoughts must show in his eyes, as Steve suddenly takes his hand away. Smiles guiltily. It’s apologetic, but not really. He clears his throat. 

“Ahh. I think. Um. Probably... it’s best if you at least try to get some rest. We can, uhh, we can... um. In the morning.”

Danny would tease Steve for his trademark eloquence, but he wouldn’t have done much better. In fact, he’s pretty sure he’d have done a lot worse. If by worse you mean he’d have just gone for the damn kiss, feelings of guilt and propriety and whatnot be damned, because if there’s one thing he’s gonna take from yet another life lost. Yet another whack up the side of the head, yet another attempt by life to beat it into him, that life is far too brutal and short. It’s simple, really. _Take the chance_.

But he can still smell the dirt. He can still taste the damn blood.

So he lets Steve settle his head back in his lap, resume his soft touches, and he manages to think about saying Steve needs to rest too, should probably go upstairs and sleep in his bed... alone. But Danny knows that would be a futile fight, and he’s not at all sure it’s what either of them wants—or _needs_ —right now. And, yes, _neither_ of them sleeping won’t do anyone any good, but either or both of them would surely have nightmares, and that probably would be worse. That definitely feels like it would be worse. So in a way, if they stay awake, they’ve at least avoided that situation. 

It’s easier for him to think it, though, having at least passed out for a bit those two times back at the hospital. Steve’s had a stressful day in his own right. Worry about others, Danny certainly knows, is often more draining than our own dramas. 

Point being, when Steve’s petting of him slows and then stops, his breaths lengthening out, easing. Danny’s actually comforted by it. That Steve felt safe enough, comfortable enough, to fall asleep with Danny. So he carefully turns in Steve’s lap, settles more easily on his less injured side, letting his head fall back against Steve’s belly. Grounding himself in the protective shield of his warmth. Drawing strength from it. Resolve. 

Which he’s grateful for about thirty seconds later because he’s hit by another wave of guilt, of hurt, of loss, of frustration, of anger. So intense it takes considerable will to not throw up. But it flashes through him. Gone just as suddenly as it’d appeared. It leaves him cold and shivery, but only for a few moments. He calms himself with breathing. With the solidity of Steve beneath him. 

He syncs his breaths with Steve’s. That helps. It always helps. It helps too, when he reaches a hand out. The one that had been holding Steve’s hand. Rests it—lightly at first, then more firmly—atop Steve’s leg. Almost like he’s bracing himself with it. Like that extra point of contact gives him greater stability.

He’s better prepared when the next wave hits. He doesn’t fight it. Lets it wash over him. Around him. Buffeting him, threatening to pull him under. But because he doesn’t struggle, he comes out of it sooner. The steady rise and fall of Steve’s breathing lulling him back into deeper comfort. 

It’s like it’s hitting all at once. Not his usual progression of emotional waves. Fear. Anger. Regret. But all of them tangled together. Indistinguishable. Mirroring the condensed path of their relationship, his and hers. As though he’s experienced an entire, complete relationship with her, in less than one day. And it’s simplified. It’s nearly a caricature. The pain of it is sharp. But it feels oddly insubstantial. More like a phantom pain than anything real. But she was real. Stunningly real. Almost too real. And his feeling her loss as anything less than fully real frustrates him. 

Which isn’t fair of him. It’s a fucked up situation for sure. He’s expecting himself to mourn her as fully as if he had in fact been in a relationship with her. Instead, he more realistically probably should be mourning the loss of the chance to _try_. 

Thing is, he’s not even sure that’s what he does feel. Because somehow, in the midst of everything else. In the middle of the tangled metal, in the middle of all the blood, between the trees and the rocks and the dirt... in between one breath and the next. He’d realized what he really wanted. And not with some flash of clarity, not some heightened wave of super-human knowing. Just with a subtle but clear shift of knowing... like it completely altered his perception of physical touch, of smell, of time itself. He knew. As though her dying (because yes, he knew that was what was happening) was simultaneously waking him somehow to a deeper truth. 

Not just the really obvious not-even-a-truth that he is attracted to Steve. Drawn to him. Sometimes in a not very healthy way. Which maybe explains his ability to—no, his penchant _for_ pushing Steve away. Pushing him into the arms of women Danny knows full well won’t be able to cope with the mess, the magic, the heartbreak and longing that is Steve McGarrett. 

And maybe that’s why he’s been able to do it. That’s why he’s been able to justify trying to push Steve into a woman’s arms. Because Danny knows. He won’t find what he needs there. Won’t find what he wants. And maybe in some stupid needy egotistical mess of a way that is so intrinsically Danny Williams. He knows. That if Steve tries hard enough, or maybe just often enough. He’ll give up. He’ll just stop trying. 

And Danny will be there. Danny will always be there, because even when Danny wants, so badly wants, to make it work with a woman—either the mother of his children, or really, any woman… the Universe will find some way of taking that away from him. 

And yes, god help him, yes, that is exactly what this feels like. And the level of _not fair_ at work in literally taking someone’s life from them to make Danny see the point (and no, he’s not so egotistical to think he’s that important, it’s so much more his punishment for not seeing, for not doing, for not taking what he’s really wanted this entire goddamn time). And that. Well. At one and the same time it threatens to completely break him. And totally set him free.

Steve, meanwhile, has fallen into a lazy sort of slumber. Resting heavily against the back of the sofa, limbs fallen more open, more relaxed. At ease. And yeah, Danny’s gonna take that as the compliment he knows it is. That Always-On-Alert McGarrett is somehow more able to be at peace with Danny nestled in his lap than without. It’s always been true, he’s always (probably they both have always) known, if not admitted. But it’s why they touch so much, why they stand so close. Why they spend so much of their waking time together. 

And a not-insubstantial amount of their not-so awake time. 

He’s wondered. On more than one occasion. What it might be like if they spent their sleeping time together as well.

It’s always been one of Danny’s favorite things about a relationship—when you hit that point where you find you’re sleeping better with the person in your bed than you did alone. It doesn't always happen. And those are the hard relationships. When you genuinely like the person, but your sleeping body doesn't agree. Like it’s a sign you’re not fated to be together. But of course, Danny usually ignores those warnings. 

Especially if the sex is great. 

He wonders how he would have slept beside Joanna. There’s just no way to know.

But Steve... Danny already knows. Steve sleeps better when Danny’s next to him. They’ve had more than enough trials of that between injury and illness. 

Danny isn't entirely there yet, in his own self-assessment of his situation. To be sure how his own body will respond. But he’s willing to bet his house that he’ll sleep better in Steve’s bed after sex with him than he’s ever slept in his entire life.

He’s not even sure anymore why he’s bothering to process all this. Because he knows. He just knows. And he is increasingly certain he always has. At this point, it’s just a question of when.

Steve stirs. Starts to wake. And Danny isn't really able to wish he’d go back to sleep. Not entirely. Because somehow, having come—in whatever tangled mess of a not-circle that process even was—somehow Danny wants (no, _needs_ ) to see Steve’s eyes. See Steve look at him, even in the mostly dark. Even not being able to distinguish the whites of his eyes, gauge the pupil dilation. Even then. He needs to _feel_ those eyes on him. Feel that warmth. That knowing. That certainty. That love. 

“Hey, buddy,” Steve murmurs sleepily. As though he knows. He strokes Danny’s head. Pets his hair. Digs his fingers gently but persistently. _I’m here... I’m always here._

Even without seeing, he feels it, and it fills him more than he would have thought possible. But he craves more, so ignoring the protests of his aching body, he turns his head just enough, grabs tighter onto Steve’s hand at his chest. Brings it up to his lips, looks up and sees Steve looking down at him. Sees the reassurance he wants. Feels the affirmation he needs. “Hey, babe. Go back to sleep.”

And, on a soft exhalation that sounds like _so much relief_ it brings tears back into Danny’s eyes, Steve does.

  
Danny, however, doesn't. And Steve stays close to the surface of waking. Anytime Danny moves, shifts, or even thinks about moving, Steve’s right there. That half-awake setting that on him is more functional, more aware, than many people’s fully-awake settings. And each time, Steve drifts back off. But Danny stays awake. Albeit in a near-dream-like state. 

And he can’t even really say what his mind does, where it goes, though it feels more than a little like a sleepy montage of the past ten years. It reminds him of the slideshow Rachel had made for Grace’s graduation party. Highlights of his life—and some pretty low ones as well. Mostly revolving around the man at his side. 

As his life has done. 

As his life will continue to do. 

And, finally. As the sun is starting to turn the sky that vivid purple pink, Danny gets up, leaves Steve, now soundly asleep, and goes to the kitchen to make coffee. 

He tries not to drink coffee before the sun is up. As if it’s some kind of deal he’s struck with his body. _As long as the world thinks it’s night, I’ll at least pretend._ But once that sun hits the horizon, all bets are off and coffee is valid game. 

He leans against the counter, letting the tile press into the small of his back. The contact hurts. Reminds him of what his body has been through. The bruise on his side is massive. He knows from experience, he’ll have it for probably three months. Maybe longer. 

He’s never healed from bruises well—and not just in the emotional sense. They just last longer on his skin than they do on Steve’s. Steve’ll get some horrific bruise, and just when Danny thinks he should check and make sure it’s been healing okay, he won’t even be able to find a trace of it. Steve will still remember exactly where it was—which Danny never does with his own. Once they’ve faded, he forgets. Which is why he rebruises himself in exactly the same places again and again. But Steve never forgets. And he’s always amused by Danny’s surprise that the mark has already gone.

So of course Steve walks in while Danny’s got his shirt awkwardly lifted, turning sideways to try and look at the vivid purple splotch painting his entire side. 

“That’s gonna be around for a while, buddy.”

Danny chuckles. It’s not even mildly amusing, but laughing about it seems like the only way to cope. “Yeah. I’ll remember it for a long time.”

Steve’s head tilts. “Danny. Even when it’s faded. You won’t forget.”

It seems important, somehow. That Steve gets it. That he understands. That, what? Maybe he’ll help? It feels like he’ll help. Even though Danny doesn't know what that means. 

“Want some eggs? Pancakes?”

“Maybe just some toast...?” And he doesn't really mean it to be a question, but he realizes it is. That he’s wanting... Steve’s permission, almost? Or advice. Maybe he wants to let go some of this hurt. Loss. Mourning. Like he doesn't have to bear it all on his own. Like he can let some of it go, Steve can take some of it for him. 

Like he knows he’s done with Steve’s losses. 

And he realizes, in that moment, that Steve _has_ let him. He’d been so upset that Steve hadn’t. That he’d been here this whole time and Steve hadn't been processing his own hurts, his own losses _at, to, around,_ _for_ Danny. But in his way, in his own very real way, he’s been doing exactly that. In a number of ways, but most plainly (and Danny feels like a heel for not seeing it, not getting it) by _taking care_ of Danny.

Because that’s exactly how Steve McGarrett would do it. Would heal from his own wounds. By caring for Danny’s.

It’s slightly messy. It’s maybe not the healthiest thing for either of them. Maybe it’s not how it should be done. But maybe it is. Or maybe it’s simply as good as it gets. Certainly it’s better than leaving it alone. Leaving them alone. Messy, but together.

Steve pours Danny’s coffee. Sets out the milk. And says “Yeah, toast is good.”

After they eat, at the dining room table again because it somehow feels right, they head outside with fresh cups of coffee. Not down to the chairs on the sand, but to the wicker, cushioned sofa on the lanai. It’s in the shade still, which also feels right. It’s a little chilly, the early morning mist having only just cleared, and when Danny shivers (not entirely involuntarily because he’s the slightest bit manipulative, enough to fake it to get what he wants) Steve wraps an arm around him reflexively and pulls himself closer, as though he would shield Danny from the breeze, from anything, from everything, with his body. 

Which is so entirely too close to the truth, it actually does make Danny shiver. 

“You okay? You’re not... in shock still, or something? Should I call the doctor?”

“Shhhh. No, I'm just. Just, stay....” He wants to say _Just hold me._ But he can’t quite get there.

But Steve seems to understand anyway, and he settles himself back against the sofa, pulling Danny along with him, so he’s basically resting against his chest, and he can’t really drink his coffee like this, at least not without spilling it on himself, but he doesn't exactly need the caffeine anyway, and he doesn't mind. So he settles in, mug resting warmly on his stomach, and listens to Steve’s heartbeat, as though that’s the more important thing right now. 

Which, well, it is.

They stay like that for a really long time, until Danny has to get up and pee, and he wants a shower, though he knows it won’t really help. But it makes him think Steve should swim. So he demands it, makes it clear he’s not suggesting, and he watches as Steve’s eyes flash with resistance, and then knowing, and then he relents. But he does so with the softest kiss to the side of Danny’s head, which makes him woozy enough to realize he probably should try and eat something more substantial than toast. So when he’s done in his shower, and Steve’s still out swimming, Danny opens the fridge to see what he might come up with to make. 

Steve hadn’t done the usual shopping, since Danny was gonna be away for the weekend, and Danny’s a little dismayed to see Steve hadn't gotten anything at all. If he’d thought about it (which in all fairness, he hadn't, he’d been too stuck in his own abysmal pit of self-pity and wallowing), he might have imagined that Steve, with the prospect of the house to himself for a long weekend, might have, maybe, gotten some massive slabs of meat, or just a whole lot of eggs, or something. But he hadn’t, and Danny doesn't really want to think about that. 

Of course, he hadn't really had time. But Steve typically plans better than that. Maybe he’d intended to camp in the yard and eat MREs. 

Danny’s little joke makes him laugh, and it hurts a little, which centers him, and he closes the fridge and heads to the pantry, and sure enough. There’s a box of MREs sitting right there in front. Probably it was already there but in the back and Steve’s simply moved it forward, but it feels this little bit like a punch to the gut to Danny. That Steve’s “plan” for the weekend while Danny was theoretically having hot sex with a stranger or a string of strangers would have been to eat freaking military field rations. Alone. 

It feels massively symbolic.

And it pushes everything else, everything Danny probably should be focusing on instead, not even just aside, but completely out of the picture. He _needs_ to make a nice meal for Steve. It’s like everything depends on it.

Fortunately, he has lasagna noodles. He always has lasagna noodles. And, the good ones. The real ones. The kind you have to boil first. And he’s got half a batch of sauce in the freezer. He can thin it out with some extra tomatoes and maybe some red wine—yep, there’s wine. Okay. And frozen pizza dough he can make into breadsticks. Always fresh garlic and plenty of butter (one thing about living with Steve, there is always lots of the really nice grass fed butter). He needs some ricotta. Or fresh motz. Or both.

He thinks about it for a minute, then makes a list. Leaves it on the counter, right where Steve will see it when he gets in from swimming and goes to get a drink of water. Sets the frozen things on the counter next to it, to thaw. Then he heads up to his room and thinks probably he won’t take a nap, will lie awake instead. But something about having a plan, something to do, something to look forward to... calms his mind, soothes his heart, and gives him that glimmer of feeling himself, feeling human again. And he thinks he’ll rest for a bit. Enjoy the comfort of his (well, not really his, but close) bed. Just for a few moments.

Of course he doesn’t expect to be woken with a kiss to his forehead like he’s Sleeping Beauty or something.

“Heey buddy. I got your cheeses and salad stuff. Want me to help?”

“Mmmph. What time is it?” _And why do you keep kissing me on the head and not the mouth—_ but, well, that’s obvious. Steve’s clearly decided it’s a safe middle ground to tread right now. 

“It’s getting late,” is all he’ll say. 

The sun is still up, and it’s always hard to read the time from the quality of light here. Not like at home where Danny could tell you the time of day and the season from how the sunlight looked on his bedroom wall. 

“Late as in I’d better get up so I don’t end up awake all night? Or late as in I’d better put the lasagna in the oven soon because you’re getting hungry?”

Steve grins. That fabulous signature Steve, pleased and amused and entirely, stupidly, adorably, wonderfully _Steve_ grin.

“Yes.”

“God you’re a goof.”

Steve doesn’t even give Danny the option, he’s already got his arm in place, and he manages to help Danny up without making it seem like it’s what he’s doing. Probably he’s just that aware, that tuned in, that sensitive to the knowledge that Danny being reminded physically of his own injuries will keep the emotions of the situation in the forefront, but easing the injuries while the emotions fade will give him time to strengthen his heart as well as his bones, and that will make this all the easier for him. It warms Danny. And if he eases into Steve’s touches with a little more weight, it’s more to do with his heart than his bones. 

He’s pretty sure Steve knows it.

  
They fall into accustomed roles in the kitchen. Steve sets the water to boil while Danny chops the garlic and strains the tomatoes. Steve rinses the lettuce, Danny pours him some wine before adding it to the sauce. He takes a single sip from the glass he then sets at Steve’s side, and he’s slow to move away. Pulled into Steve’s warmth. Not just because it feels nice, makes the aches bother him less. There’s this heaviness to his body when he’s near Steve. A sort of gravitational eddy that wants to pull him in. It’s always been there, though at times it’s had less effect. Right now it’s nearly immobilizing.

“I don’t want to go back home,” he says, before he’s even realized he’s thought it.

Steve sets his towel down, picks up the wineglass. “Yeah, of course, buddy. You stay as long as you need. No rush. I love having you here, you know that.”

“No. I mean....”

And Steve sees it, in that split second of Danny’s hesitation, of wondering how he can say _Now that we’ve lived together I can’t go back to living apart._

“Okay. Of course. Yeah.” He’s stumbling over his words, but he’s stumbling physically as well, and he nearly spills the wine, so Danny takes the glass from him and sets it on the counter. He moves into Steve’s space, just kind of inserts himself in the middle, in that place at Steve’s front where it seems like Danny fits perfectly. And Steve hesitates, for one flicker of a moment, like his sensors are doing a sweep to make sure it’s not an ambush, but then he closes his body around Danny. Enveloping him, as though he’s welcoming part of himself home, and the way he settles, the way he calms, becomes so solid, so sure, so... confident. It washes over Danny, washes over both of them, like it’s creating some kind of bond, some kind of forcefield, and it feels to Danny as though it might possibly keep everything else out. At least for a while.

The sauce is simmering on the stove. The water for the noodles is boiling. The dough ready to be shaped into breadsticks. The kitchen is warm, and the smells comfort him in that particular way that smells of cooking tied up with feeling safe and loved do. He wants this moment to last. Wants to let it soak into his bones, to know it’s flooding Steve’s bloodstream. Healing them both. Twining them closer together.

So of course that’s when Eddie decides it’s a group hug, and sticks his snout right in between them, giving that loving snort dogs excel at.

“Heeey, boy. You want some love too?” Steve reaches down to scratch Eddie's ears with one hand, his other sliding down to Danny’s side from where it had been at his back. Holding even tighter. Needing him to know he’s not letting go. 

Danny leans into it, but lifts his head, to meet Steve’s eyes. “Lemme get this in the oven, then we can go out back and you can throw the ball for him.”

It’s a simple thought. Just a regular weekend afternoon kind of thing. But from the look in Steve’s eyes, you’d think it was the most extraordinary idea anyone’d ever had. And there’s a thought beneath that reaction Danny thinks he senses. Watches Steve warring with himself over how he should respond. What he wants, and what’s best for Danny, so clearly at odds. At least in Steve’s perception. So Danny reaches up. Hand tangling in the hairs at the base of Steve’s scalp. Tugs him closer. Holds their faces near. His lips brushing the side of Steve’s cheek, nearly but not quite at his lips.

“It’s just lasagna, babe.”

Steve shivers, and doesn’t move away. Like maybe if he stays there’ll be more.

Danny steps back. Feels Steve’s fingers around his waist dig in deeper. Then flex and let go, realizing they’re hurting him. Danny moves his hand over Steve’s. It does hurt. But he doesn’t mind. Thinks it’s fitting.

“Leave the salad, can you take care of the noodles while I work with the dough?”

Steve looks apprehensive. “I’ll do it wrong.”

Danny smiles to himself. “Yeah, you will, but that’s okay.”

He knows he’s layering shock upon shock to poor Steve’s system. An almost kiss, then the insinuation that imperfection is acceptable in the kitchen. What is the world coming to? Steve shakes his head, probably indicating he doesn’t buy it, but goes to put the pasta in the boiling water just the same.

He turns in place, when he’s done. Directly behind where Danny’s got the dough on the baking sheet, brushing melted butter and minced garlic atop the twists of bread, sprinkling that coarse salt he knows Steve secretly likes. Knows it because it’s the one Steve’s always sure to restock. Knows it because there’s one store on the island that sells it, and Tani, of all people, once had asked. Because Tani doesn’t cook. Because Steve couldn’t just say “This one. This salt. I like this.” Because that’s not something he thinks he should do. 

Danny secretly loves that it’s true.

“Those look good,” Steve says. Directly in Danny’s ear. And yeah, he means the bread, but Danny’s body doesn’t seem to differentiate. Takes the compliment so personally. 

He’s sore enough in enough of his body that the arousal aches. And not in a good way. Which he’s grateful for because there’s still so much of him that just _can’t_. There’s a tipping point to this though. A sliding fulcrum that’s forever adjusting closer and closer. One of these moments will be that slide too far and Danny’ll topple. He thinks he’d rather choose the moment himself with care and consideration. If that means it’s too soon, he’s not really convinced it would ever feel _not_ too soon. Never might feel too soon. And yesterday is already too late.

He leans back into Steve. Those arms come up around him. Latching together at the wrists. It’s a safety hold. A controlling hold. But it feels like Steve’s using it on himself, for his benefit, rather than Danny’s.

“How’re those noodles coming?” Danny asks when his internal pasta monitor starts to fidget.

“I’m probably ruining them,” Steve says. Breath tickling a new spot at the side of Danny’s neck. Lower, towards that vulnerable indent, right where neck and shoulder collide. Steve must be hunching over him. Lowering himself into Danny. Trying to match him, align.

“I’m not gonna mind, if you keep doing that.”

He doesn’t mean to say it. His thought-to-mouth filter seems offline lately. Not in the sense it’s enabling him to express things he ordinarily wouldn’t, more that a direct link has been established. _Thought... no censoring... expression._ It’s terrifying and it’s liberating and it’s terrifying _because_ it’s liberating.

“I’m hungry, though.” It’s sweetly peevish. Adorably like Eddie’s mope beside his empty food bowl. “And I love your lasagna.”

Which Danny knows. Full well. It’s why he’s making it tonight. It’s that subtle touch of manipulation, that soft directioning. Enforce activity with swimming. Tempt with favored foods. Danny almost might end the day by giving Steve a belly rub. It’s not an entirely inaccurate comparison. Of course Steve does it to him as well. Coffee. Sugar. Sandwiches. Chocolate. His favorite TV show. A cuddle on the couch. They know each other’s needs and know it’s worth taking the time to be sure they get them. And there is a subtle managerial aspect to it. Because they’re happier and better at their jobs and safer when they do it. But it’s more honest, more forthright than the behind the curtain machinations that govern almost every conventional “relationship.” Steve keeping those mints in the freezer may have its roots in the accidental discovery that Danny will stop his bickering on a hot afternoon if his mouth is filled with cool, sweet, chocolate freshness. But they’re there now because Steve knows Danny loves them. And that matters to Steve. Full stop.

He presses his hips back, knowing what he’ll find.

“This isn’t about lasagna,” he observes.

“Well, it _is_ really good lasagna.”

_The way to a man’s heart...._

“Its’s gonna be mush if you don’t watch those noodles.”

Steve releases him. But it doesn’t feel as though he’s been released. If anything it feels like he’s been _ensnared_. He watches, as if in slow motion, as Steve tests the pasta, determines it done, carefully drains it, rinsing the long strips, laying them out for Danny to work his magic.

Thing is. Danny enjoys watching Steve. And maybe it’s some dangerous trade, like a leprechaun whispering his name. But maybe it will tell Steve what Danny can’t yet put into more than almost kisses.

“Sauce first,” he intones. Low, soft. And maybe he anticipates a certain reaction. Those shivers of Steve’s have been so delightfully raw. Instead he stills. Perfect sudden stillness. As though he’s heard a twig snap. For a matter of seconds Danny expects Steve to refuse. To put the spoon into Danny’s hands, to insist. To ruin Danny’s... well, honestly though, it isn’t a game. 

But he doesn’t. Steve takes the spoon. Very carefully ladles just the perfect amount of sauce into the bottom of the pan, spreading it around like he’s seen Danny do countless times. 

Just as with the butter, he gets it exactly right.

“Noodles,” Danny orders, needlessly.

The first one tears. They are, after all, slightly overdone. But Steve’s heard the lectures. Torn noodles don’t matter in the middle, because you don’t need them for structure. But the foundation is important. He builds the bottom layer with exactness. And waits. Danny moves closer. The bowl is on the counter. Ricotta mixed with bits of fresh mozzarella. Danny’s secret method. A nod to the old ways, but rooted in the present. It’s the most delicate step. The first spread of cheese on the first layer of noodles. He sees the hesitation in Steve’s eyes, in his halted movement toward the clean spoon. Danny puts as much reassurance, as much encouragement, as much _I need you to take this step_ into his eyes as he can. 

Steve actually _nods_. Takes a deep breath, and spreads the cheese expertly. For one achingly slow beat of his heart Danny regrets the failure of the restaurant. Because a lifetime of homemade lasagna doesn’t feel like enough.

The ache passes, the regret leaves him. But it leaves a deeper sorrow in its place. It’s washed over as Steve continues, unbidden now, bold—perhaps because he’s understood. Danny watches. Seeing not the dish being assembled, only the man doing it. His precise motions. His exacting methods. The care he puts into everything he does. The tenderness he’s capable of. It’s everything Danny’s always wanted. And never found where he expected to. It’s been here. This whole time. All he needed to have done....

Well. He’s doing it now.

Steve finishes assembling. Puts the foil on. Checks the oven temperature, slides the baking dish directly into the center. Far more precise than Danny bothers to be. It’s made him smile, because Steve’s taken something Danny prided himself on. Something he counts as a signature thing. And Steve’s been so careful with it. Almost as though he’s done it in tribute. In honor of. And Danny’d planned it _for_ Steve. And it’s that tangle of _mine, yours, ours_ that seals it, he thinks. Feels it slide into place like the baking dish. Somehow it’s now aligned. The same dish Danny always makes. But finished by Steve. It’s a kind of alchemy. Creating something new from what’s been all along.

Danny grabs two beers from the fridge.

“Eddie, where’s your ball?”

Claws clatter across the wood. He beats Danny to the lanai door, mouth enclosed around his favorite tennis ball. Steve trails behind them, kitchen towel still draped over his shoulder. Danny’s always loved that look on him, but it means something different now. He takes the ball Eddie offers him. Throws it far but not to the water. Knows he’s got precious seconds before Eddie returns. 

The grass is cool beneath his feet. It feels familiar, but also strangely new. Steve’s caught up with him. Eyeing the beers. Wondering, perhaps, what’s expected of him to be given one.

Danny grins. Holds the bottles by the necks, between them. He thinks about saying something. But nothing he could say would be fitting. So he doesn’t. Just holds Steve’s eyes as they drink. When Steve lets his bottle down, looks like he’s drawing a breath to maybe say something, Danny steps forward. He doesn’t have far to reach, because Steve’s leaning down towards him already. His hand slips around behind Steve’s neck, he presses their lips together. It’s swift. It’s chaste. It tastes faintly of malt and hops. Steve licks his lips after, as though chasing the taste, the sensation.

“Yeah, okay, that’s better than what I was gonna say.”

“And what was that, babe?”

“ _I’m glad you want to stay._ ”

Eddie, having returned somewhere in the middle of the slightly-more-of-a-kiss, ruffs softly in that indoor voice he uses for non-explosive attention getting.

“Eddie is too,” Steve adds on a laugh, bending down to retrieve the ball Eddie’s deposited at their feet.

Taking another swig of his beer, Danny wraps his non-beer hand around Steve’s waist. Tucking his fingers through one of the loops in the cargoes Steve’d put on for his trip to the store, Danny bumps his side against Steve’s. The jostling of his bruised insides fits with the ache he’d felt before, over lost time, lost opportunities. It makes the sky bluer, the breeze warmer, the grass wetter, the beer more refreshing. But as he settles, their bodies pressed more tightly together as Steve widens his stance to take more of Danny’s weight, their shared body heat soaks into the pain. It doesn’t lessen it, but it mingles with it in a way that feels strange. 

They’ve lightened each other’s loads before. Side by side. It’s what partners do. This is different. Not shared, but combined. It’s compelling. A little thrilling. His breaths come shallow. The beer doesn’t calm him like he expects it to. Something buzzes across his skin. Slightly uncomfortable and electric. His insides itch, which they do as they heal, but it’s too soon for that, this is something else. Something dormant that’s been startled from its slumber.

He’s torn between want and need and fear and guilt. Too much has been wasted. Life, blood, time, love. In a sense, it would be a tribute to her. If they’d become friends, and not lovers, as part of him imagines, she might have been the one to push him towards Steve—where no one else has managed. In a sense, that is what she’s done. What she is doing.

Maybe he’s just making himself feel better. Selfishly easing his own guilt. His own blame mingled now with understanding. But in a way, the guilt is what makes his way forward start to clear. Because suffering the loss with nothing learned turns it darker. But turning it into purpose has value. And maybe that reeks of pointless justifying. But there’s truth there, there’s light there, and in the way that things sometimes seem perfectly obvious in the aftermath of tragedy, he just can’t imagine anything else.

Danny’s finger in Steve’s belt loop twists. Steve looks down at him. Gently. Warmly. Kindly. As he always has, but something new. An openness. With slight daring. He leans closer. Testing, perhaps. Danny doesn’t even think, he meets him, willing. Needing. Needing to feel life, in the presence of so much death. Needing to prove life wins, good wins, _hope_ wins.

Steve leads it this time. And slowly, deliciously, it deepens where the others hadn’t. Gentle, teasing, exploring, yet finding every touch, every taste somehow familiar. They’re already good at kissing, and that’s shocking and it isn’t. It makes it easier. Because it feels fated. It feels right. That last remaining part of him, the self-loathing, self-blaming deep dark vile part that wants it to _hurt_ fades into the shadows. Because there’s just no way this kiss can be anything other than life-changing. Life-affirming. And he needs that now. They both do.

Eddie nudges them, drops his ball and barks a little more loudly this time. Steve squirms at Danny’s side. Finding the ball with his foot. Breaks the kiss only long enough to grab the ball, throwing it as hard as he can, out to sea. Eddie bounds joyfully after it, splashing in the waves in pure delight, while Steve wraps himself completely around Danny. Taking his beer from him, walking them both, still kissing, towards the grill, mere paces away, setting the beers atop it, knocking one over, spilling it down the side, dripping onto the grass. A sacrifice maybe. One that cleanses. One that lightens.

Both hands now free to roam over Danny’s back, over his arms, his neck, his head, Steve claims him. Danny almost thinks he hears Steve’s heart beating out _mine, mine, mine_ in some possessive counterpoint to his own. How long has Steve wanted this? How long has he held himself back from it? The hurt of that wonder is sharp. But the kiss dulls it. Dulls his senses. His own hands have landed in Steve’s back pockets. Tugging his ass forward. Seeking contact. Seeking feeling. Needing his need to be known. Wanting his _want_ to be felt.

Steve groans into his mouth. Licks it away. Licks deeper.

Eddie, returned from his exile unaware, shakes, splattering salt water over them both in some kind of canine baptism. They break from the kiss with laughter. Steve fumbles for the ball again, but Danny pauses him with a hand to his arm.

“Better not,” he whispers. Voice ragged. Breathless. His longing, he’s certain, is echoed in Steve’s eyes. But so is understanding.

“Food first,” Steve offers. Ever the practical one.

“Sure,” Danny concedes. It’s dumb to pretend otherwise. Pointless to protest the inevitable. Not that they’re not capable. But denying, at this point, where they’re so obviously headed, is simply without purpose.

However. Danny definitely needs food. And Steve doesn’t do well without his protein. And, well. Danny’d rather they be, if not at their best, certainly not so close to their worst. Best is overly optimistic. But waiting for some perfect set of circumstances... that’s precisely how one ends up in just this sort of situation. They can at least be fed. The bar isn’t set astronomically high. But if that kiss is anything to go by.... They’ll need the fuel, is the point.

Steve and Eddie engage in a few rounds of fetch, staying on dry land. Danny claims the unspilt beer, shares it with Steve. Mostly because the taste now evokes the kiss. And that’ll be a fun sensory thing to deal with. They steal a few light kisses between throws of the ball, until Danny stops those as well, in favor of checking on the food. 

  
The timing of lasagna is something of an intuitive exercise. As long as the foil is sealed tightly, and the oven temperature low enough, it can go for a long while before you get those burnt bits at the bottom corners. Truth be told, Danny enjoys those corners. They’d been his favorite part as a child, and he may have studiously avoided letting it happen while they were in restaurant mode, but there’s something about allowing it now that feels comforting. Healing. Evoking home. Calling to mind _family_. He craves it tonight.

Fortunately, he guesses it’s close. He’ll turn the oven up to bake the breadsticks, take the foil off, and he might get those savory, charred corners of pasta and caramelized tomato while he’s at it. He finishes the salad, though his heart isn’t in it. It’s more that it rounds out the meal. The thought stirs another long forgotten memory, and a sudden surge of craving sets his mind whirring. Focusing on the desire for spumoni, however, doesn’t detract from the issue of what might or might not happen after dinner. It only amplifies it.

What amplifies it even more is when Steve comes in, damp and smelling of wet dog, obviously having sprayed Eddie down after his swim, and as much as Danny enjoys the feel of Steve’s slightly stubbled face nuzzling at his neck, he’s not so much a fan of the eau de canine, so he somewhat politely suggests he have a bath of his own.

Danny doesn’t count on the distraction factor involved, of attempting to finish the meal while Steve’s upstairs, naked and wet. So that’s fun. 

(He burns the garlic bread.)

But he pulls himself together, and by the time Steve’s back downstairs, smelling like soap, Danny’s got dinner on the table.

(Minus the breadsticks.)

Steve, of course notices. Danny’s sure of it. But other than eyeing Danny even more closely than normal (to which he manages not to react, physically, for which he’s exceedingly pleased with himself), Steve doesn’t comment on the missing bread. But he does comment on the difference in the way the lasagna is baked. And give him credit, he doesn’t even try to take the blame. He knows he assembled it to perfection, even if he doesn’t entirely manage to keep from fishing for a compliment from Danny, ever his harshest critic. (His most loving one as well.)

“Did you turn the heat up while I wasn’t looking?” He asks first.

Fortunately, Danny has just finished a swallow of wine, or he’d probably have spit it out, because there’s no doubt in his mind it was Steve who was responsible for the heightening of sexual tensions between them.

“A little, at the end,” he admits. “My grandma always did that. Take the foil off, let the cheese burn a little on top, the corners get a little caramelized as well. Candied tomato, she called it. I was craving the taste,” he ends feeling the smallest bit uneasy. It had been such a strong compulsion, so powerful a longing. But it sounds childish to his ears. And maudlin. Which maybe it shouldn’t.

Steve, though, grins adoringly. Always honored when Danny gifts him with stories of his grandmother’s kitchen. He takes a bite of the nearly charred tomato from the corner of his slice, and Danny sees the moment he gets it.

“That’s actually amazing,” Steve admits, clearly enjoying the taste. “Why didn’t you ever do it that way before?”

Danny sinks back in his chair. Because he’s thought about it. And he’s not completely comfortable admitting it. Not even to Steve. Maybe especially not to Steve.

“Because it makes it not perfect? Because it’s something that looks like you’ve done it wrong, seems from the outside you’ve ruined it, left it too long. And if you care about how it looks....” He stops mostly because he realizes he’s not really talking about the lasagna anymore.

“So what changed?”

He’s pretty sure Steve isn’t either.

He shrugs, because his answer— _someone died and I decided I couldn’t not admit how I feel any longer_ —just isn’t something he can say out loud.

“I needed the comfort.”

That, he can admit.

Steve nods, takes another bite, very obviously enjoying the novel taste. “I’m glad,” is his only acknowledgment he’s heard Danny’s subtext.

Once they’ve finished, and Danny’s been fidgeting in increasing discomfort, Steve sends him out with Eddie.

“He’ll be good,” Steve insists. “He can tell you’re hurt, so that’s more likely to keep him focused, really, than me keeping him on the leash. Just let him do his business and then get him to run around a little.”

It’s sweet, really. Because Steve could say _You need to move before you get too stiff,_ but he doesn’t. He lets Danny avoid that scolding, the judgment, the reminder he needs to be caring for his own injuries—the physical ones.

And Danny’s left the burnt rolls in the oven. He knows Steve will find them. But if he protests it’ll just make it a bigger deal. And he really is desperate to move. So he whistles for Eddie, and he goes.

  
He could count, in his head, how long Steve’ll need to clear the table, put the leftovers away, wash all the dishes (leaving the burnt on lasagna tray to soak, if he’s being reasonable... extra ten minutes otherwise), and he lets that time and more pass. He enjoys being out here with Eddie. Enjoys the company. The unpressured companionship of a dog. He’s missed it, all these years not having it. It’s all the more a comfort to him now, when he needs it, because of that. And it’s making his heart uncomfortably warm. Towards Eddie, towards his adopted owner as well.

“Steve’s just one of those guys, isn’t he, boy?”

Eddie’s completed his circuit, freshening his nightly territory marking, and he’s come to receive his obligatory ear scratching from a slightly too thoughtful Danny.

“He always goes for the broken ones.”

Eddie’s shoved his snout back into Danny’s hand when he’s eased in his scratching. Probably just to say _Hey that was nice please don’t stop._ But it feels just as much as though he’s saying, _We’re safe with him, he gets it._

Which is why, when Steve comes out, probably to tell his boys it’s time to come in to bed, Danny has to quickly wipe the dampness from his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Ready for your shower?”

And Steve’s tone is close enough to what he’d use if he were asking Eddie if he was ready for his bath, that Danny says it without thinking.

“You gonna scrub me down too?”

And Steve doesn’t fall for the cheap reply. But he clearly thinks it.

Danny showers in Steve’s bathroom. It’s not something they talk about, it just kind of happens. When he comes out, Steve’s got Danny’s sleep clothes, laid out, right there, on Steve’s bed. Danny’s pillow is there too. Not up at the head of the bed. Not that presumptuous. Sitting... significantly, meaningfully. Temptingly. Directly above the neat stack of pajama bottoms and faded old tee. It’s an offer. Not a demand.

Steve just shrugs, when Danny eyes him. Goes to shower.

Danny dries himself slowly. Taking stock of his injuries as he does. Probably he should have taken the drugs. Probably that would have helped. The pain hasn’t faded at all, but it has diffused. It’s less his ankle that hurts, more his whole leg. He doesn’t have as sharp a headache, but god his neck is stiff. He feels like a rag doll that’s been thrown. Hit against the wall. Dropped to the floor and stepped on.

His heart, though. His heart feels painfully hopeful. And there is such a huge part of him that loathes himself for that. But there’s a growing part of him that thinks maybe that matters less than he’d have imagined. That maybe the pain of it is part of how he can manage to actually finally do this. Because admitting they want this, have wanted this, was always going to hurt. And by the same token, it was always going to take a hurt to get them here. 

He gets dressed. Grunts in annoyance at the reluctance of his body to perform the basic task.

He could, easily, take his pillow and walk across the hall to his room. Sleep in the bed he’s come to think of as his. It would be a comfort. But he also thinks it would be unwise.

He’s standing there still, when Steve emerges, already dried and in his sleep clothes. Either Danny seriously lost track of time, or Steve’s cut his military regulation shower in half. Maybe he was afraid if he gave Danny too much time, he’d make the choice he has in fact been contemplating.

“Up to you, buddy,” Steve says, uncommonly softly. “Of course I’ll understand.” He’s not meeting Danny’s eyes, either to make it easier on Danny, or because he’s afraid of swaying Danny with his preference.

Steve’s messed with his phone, turned off an alarm perhaps, and he’s settled down, slightly uneasily, in the bed. Carefully holding to his side. Which of course implies the other belongs to Danny. And it’s the side he’d have chosen, and Steve couldn’t have known that. And it’s not as though Danny needs a sign. It’s not as though anything else needs to point him to the inescapable conclusion that this is where he belongs. But it makes the decision easier. Gives it a push of _Well how could you not._

So he pulls the blanket aside, and climbs in.

He turns toward Steve. Who has already turned toward him. _Of course,_ his brain commentates. _He’s a freaking stealth ninja in bed as well._ But he keeps his sass and amusement to himself.

“If I say I’m glad you decided to stay would it sound horribly insensitive?”

Danny’s huff of laughter feels hot in his chest. Not hard to imagine that’s the bitterness. “I don’t think there’s much in the way of etiquette rules for this situation,” he says once the burning has subsided. 

He wants to reach a hand out for Steve’s hair, pet it like he’s been petting Danny. But his body feels seized up in a giant cramp of stiffness and ache. He doesn’t dare move, and it frustrates him.

Steve, with his vast knowledge from both his own history of injuries and also Danny’s current ones, seems to be aware. He moves closer, lays on his back, so Danny can basically prop himself against Steve’s side. They can look at each other, are mostly comfortable, and most importantly, they’re touching. Steve’s head is essentially resting against the hand Danny’s propped his own head on, so it’s a simple thing for his fingers to tangle just for a moment in those lengthening locks, and he’s surprised at how soft it is. He must have started conditioning it. Ordinarily he’d have laughed at the discovery. Tonight it makes his belly tingle.

They’re silent for a while, adjusting to the newness of the situation. Maybe realizing it doesn’t actually feel all that new.

“What happened to the garlic bread?” Steve asks. And honestly, Danny’d forgotten. Or maybe not forgotten, but blocked it. Blocked that failure from his mind.

He sighs. “I burnt it.”

“Yes, I saw.... Doesn’t seem like you.” His tone is concerned, more than exasperated. A little bit prying. Maybe he’s working out symptoms still. Evaluating how impacted Danny’s senses are? Ever the commander. Concerned for the performance ability of those in his command.

“Doesn’t it?” Danny smiles. To his estimation he accidentally burns things a lot. Time was, it’d have been Steve pointing that out. Steve teasing him about trying to burn down his house. They still joke about Danny liking his eggs just that little bit burnt. But Steve’s estimation of Danny’s cooking has come a long way since that fateful egg incident... what, nearly ten years ago? He expects more of Danny now, in the kitchen. Danny half loves it, half feels the weight of it. Expectations can be paralyzing, after all. Which maybe explains far too many things about both of them.

He could make up an excuse. Maybe he should. But he doesn’t want to. 

“It’s your fault.”

And of course Steve’s used to being blamed. And for a split second it seems he’ll take it at face value and move on to something else. But then he seems to remember he wasn’t even in the kitchen.

“Wait. How is it my fault?”

“You distracted me.”

“But... I was upstairs?”

“Yep.”

“... In the shower.... Oh.”

Danny’s pretty sure his cheeks flush, but then Steve’s hand comes up and wraps around the back of Danny’s neck and firmly, but oh so gently, pulls him down for a kiss.

“You coulda come with me,” Steve whispers to Danny’s lips.

Danny’s eyes open, and he sees heat in Steve’s. Muted, damped down, held back. But unmistakable. And god help him but he wants to fall into that heat. Let it burn away the guilt, the fear, the regret. 

As it is, between the pain and the lightheadedness from the kiss, he finds himself resting more and more on Steve’s body. Till Steve tugs his head down, slides further on his back to support Danny, and then he’s resting Danny’s head on his chest, Steve’s wonderful, familiar, comforting chest, Danny’s body falling against his side as though it is, quite simply, where he belongs. 

His ankle, though, is throbbing now, from being laid down, his circulation readjusting to the flow, making the pain worse. He fidgets to get more comfortable, and Steve adjusts helpfully beneath him. They wind up with Danny’s injured leg resting across the tops of Steve’s legs. It’s intimate, but born of practicality. And that seems perfectly fitting, too.

Steve settles into having more of Danny’s weight resting on him, and maybe Danny’s imagining things, but it seems Steve likes it. And not just in a satisfied-by-close-physical-contact kind of way. It feels like he’s humming in contentment. If he was the cat he so identifies with, he’d be purring, Danny’s certain of it. But it’s something more than contact, Danny thinks. Related, perhaps, to the calming affect his stillness has on Steve. That step beyond being still. Being... held in stillness. Maybe it’s like those weighted blankets. Or a little bit like being restrained, but in that good way. Or maybe it’s that Steve wasn’t loved enough, though there’s no such thing as _being loved enough._ Whatever it is, whatever combination of things it is, it gives Danny ideas, gives him that shiver of anticipation, for the next phase of this thing between them.

But the day is catching up with him, and he may have tried not to see it coming, but Steve has. In that way he has, of being more aware, more concerned, more in tune, when it comes to Danny than he is of or for himself. So Danny rests as much of his weight on Steve as he can, lets himself sink into the rightness of it, the warmth of it, the peace of it, and almost even forgets what it is that’s brought them here.

  
Until that terrifying moment in the middle of the night when it all comes tumbling back.

He wakes in that wash of terror, instantly losing his sense of the dream as waking thrusts him abruptly out of his mind’s attempt at processing the accident. He tastes the metallic tang of his own blood, smells the sharp green of the broken branches, feels the pliancy of the jungle floor. 

Hears the sirens, too faint to be any good at all.

His heart thuds heavily. Not racing. Not pushing. Aware, painfully aware there’s nothing to be done. He’s removed from it already. Faded, fading, lost. 

But it leaves him cold again. So he wraps himself even more tightly around Steve. Pressing into his side, against his chest, towards his heart, as though that way safety lies. Which, honestly, he’s longed to do more times than he could count, he just hadn’t ever truly realized the longing for what it was. But now, now it seems so clear. So absolutely clear.

Steve wakes enough to pull Danny tighter. Hand holding his head to his heart, lips finding the top of Danny’s head, muttering something to his hair, a comforting, a soothing attempt.

And it’s nice. It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy it. Not that he doesn’t love it, actually. And while part of him engages his anxiety over the possibility of Steve only being like this when there’s been a tragedy, the rest of him is increasingly consumed with the need for _more_.

It’s not like he’s not very, very aware of the human propensity to take death, to take the brutal reality of human frailty, human mortality, and turn it into a desperate need for sex. He’s been there, he’s done that, he’s got a drawer full of the shirts. He would go so far as to say he recognizes the smell of it. He’s also very, very aware that his own safety mechanisms should probably engage right now. Should help him slow this need, this want, this desire that’s building in his gut, surging through his veins. Filling his heart and other areas further south. He should want to stop it. He can already taste the regret. Feel the self-loathing heat his insides. He should want to climb out of his body at the very thought.

But the thing is. That’s just not how it feels. There’s instead this odd lightness to it. This softness, this ease. A comfort.

And a need so bright it threatens to blind him to everything else.

He presses against Steve. He lifts his leg higher, and it hurts, the strain, the pull. He squirms on his side until he’s got his arm under him, leveraging himself up Steve’s chest, aligning him to be able to lower himself, capture those lips.

He hesitates. Steve’s sleeping. He looks so peaceful. But Danny’s need won’t be silenced so easily, and he feels that energy beneath him, that Steve had made sure he’d known... _right here when you’re ready_.... And he shouldn’t be. He’s so so sure he really shouldn’t be. And yet. He is.

He’s pushed himself to sex when he’s wanted it but known it wasn’t right. He’s let himself be led to it when he wasn’t needing it but knew it was needed. And fourteen other variations. But he’s never felt just so confidently ready. He should regret this. The context. The timing. The injuries. None of it seems like it should be right. But maybe all of that is exactly why it is. What are you supposed to do? Wait for the stars to align? They never will. Or, you’ll die waiting. Or... maybe this is what the stars aligning looks like.

“Are you going to kiss me?”

It’s soft. It’s teasing. It’s dripping with a need that matches his own.

So he does.

Before he knows it, Steve’s leveraged Danny neatly on top of him, their bodies lining up so perfectly. Their longing lining up so perfectly. Mostly it’s about that need to be close. To merge. To become one. In body as in heart, in mind. They’ve tangled their emotions together so tightly over the past twenty four hours, it’s as though their bodies couldn’t stand to be left behind. Lips and fingers and hands and finally, ecstatically, hips thrusting, carefully, but firmly. Steve’s hands hold Danny’s ass, his grip at once tender and insisting. Danny struggles to sitting, astride, legs resting uncomfortably on either side of Steve, his weight supported on his knees.

“No, no, that’s not good,” Steve mutters, far more concerned for Danny’s comfort than he is. “Let’s shift, let’s....”

But Danny stops him. Yes, it hurts. But he needs that counterpoint. That balance. That... penance, in a sense. He’s allowing himself this. Or, refusing to deny what feels so right. But it helps that there’s pain there with it. Because, really, that’s how life works, and pretending otherwise would seem dishonest.

So he lets one hand rest on Steve’s belly, leans much of his weight on that. Uses the other to tug Steve’s shorts low enough, shimmying his hips down and then back up, then pops the button on his own pajamas, and it’s messy and it’s awkward and certainly it could be done more efficiently, and with more finesse. But sometimes awkward and messy is just how it is, and it doesn’t make it mean anything less. The rawness of it, the vulnerability, if anything, means more.

Certainly Steve’s no longer protesting. Each thrust through Danny’s unsteady grasp elicits a sound from within him Danny’s not even sure Steve’s aware he’s making.

The need to kiss, though, is what does them in. And it’s nearly at the same time, Danny feels the push, the tug, pulling them back together, like they’re connected physically by a string that’s been tightened. And he tries to keep a hand between them, tries to keep that moving, but that’s lost in the kissing as well, not that it matters. They’ve gone past the tipping point, and everything just falls from here. Inevitably cascading into that shuddering, cleansing, realigning release.

Of course once they’re through it and the waters are calm, everything looks different. It’s been staggered steps often sideways, blind corners, uncertain moves.

But now, the light’s cleared, the storm shifted, the path cleared of debris. And everything looks new again.

Danny tries to move, to climb off, go clean up, but Steve’s gone sleepy, holds him tight. “No, don’t move. Not yet. Please.”

And it’s usually Danny wanting that, wanting to bask in it, not disrupt the bubble. He loves it on Steve. So he settles himself atop his best friend. The man he’s loved for ten years. The person he can finally admit is the one he wants in his bed. And it’s messy and it’s a little bit broken and probably it always will be, but it’s warm and it’s comfort and it’s happiness. And it’s the only place he wants to be. And finally, it’s his. _Theirs_. And that’s exactly as it should be.


End file.
